


for the love of you

by mostlikelydefinentlymad



Category: Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, No Angst, POV John Watson, bickering victorian boyfriends, domestic johnlock bc my babies deserve happiness :'), holmes is a little shit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-02 05:28:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10210580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mostlikelydefinentlymad/pseuds/mostlikelydefinentlymad
Summary: John Watson questions his sanity frequently.What does it say about a man when he falls in love with an erratic detective who starts fires just to study the smoke pattern on the ceiling? Or beds with said man who should never be allowed near a pistol.Or waltzes in his arms at the midnight hour?





	

 

* * *

 

John Watson questions his sanity frequently.

What does it say about a man when he falls in love with an erratic detective who starts fires just to study the smoke pattern on the ceiling? Or beds with said man who should never be allowed near a pistol. Or waltzes in his arms at the midnight hour?

He's asking himself those very questions when Holmes shrieks from the other room. How ignorant of Watson to assume he could bask in a warm bath without the world ending. 

" _What_ did you do?" He demands. 

Holmes takes a hit from his pipe and uses to point toward Watson's damp feet. "You're puddling." He tsk's and plucks a three day old newspaper from the floor (having put it there himself in hopes of getting under Watson's skin - it worked, for the record) and pretends to read it. "Nanny will use your hair as a dust-mop if you go on standing there." 

A slight breeze filters in from a partially opened window and Watson shudders. He draws Holmes' (scratch that. it was his before Holmes stole it) dressing gown around his damp body and screeches as much as a partially nude man in a dusty rose wrapper can. 

"Tell me what you did, Holmes. If you poisoned the dog again, so help me."

"Nonsense. I finished that experiment last week."

Watson's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Who did you kill?"

Holmes is the type of man who plays a ukulele in order to charm flies into dancing in a certain manner, he couldn't take another person's life if his depended upon it. Though he'd calmly stated one afternoon, over Chess and a tray of lemon tarts, that he'd willingly kill a man for his Boswell. His commitment was both unsettling and flattering. 

The consulting detective deadpans and pats the empty chair across from his. "Only the postman, my love. Won't you sit down and have some tea with me?" 

 

  
Of all the people in London, why did Watson have to take up with this one? Sherlock Holmes is a madman but then again he is no different, he supposes. They make their living on touching the dead and solving crime, how normal can  _he_ be?

"Holmes," he warns, taking a few steps toward the detective who's warm and dry and not shivering in the sitting room. 

His maddening partner aims a violin bow in the direction of Watson's feet and the watery trail he's leaving behind. Holmes has yet to peek out from behind the newspaper. 

"Puddling."

Watson throws up his arms dramatically. "That's not even a word!  _What_ did you do, Sherlock Holmes? If you refuse to tell me, I'll send Nanny up to badger the answer out of you." 

Talking to the man is like carrying on a conversation with a blank wall someday's but he mostly listens to Mrs. Hudson's clucking over cleaning and the like. 

Holmes carefully folds his newspaper and scoots to the edge of his chair. It's the innocent slow smile that tells Watson he should've saw this coming from a mile away. Holmes' eyes devour him from the tips of his toes to the dampened hair on his head. They drift downward once more and settle between Watson's bare thighs, his front half now having been exposed on account of his little outburst. 

"I was merely trying to get you worked up, _John_. And I have succeeded, you can go now."

Watson sees red. He surges forward and braces his palms on the stained and burnt arms of Holmes' chair. He's more than a little aware of the condition fighting with the madman has put him in and feels no shame about teasing his detective by standing between the v of his legs. If Holmes' didn't want to have a first class ticket to his companion's nudity, he shouldn't have interrupted his relaxing bath.  

 

"You're an impossible man," Watson huffs. 

"That's _my_ dressing gown," Holmes states. It carries no conviction and Watson considers himself the victor of this round. Still, he must have the last word. It's vital to his health and wellbeing, thank you.

"It's not."

Holmes stands and tugs on each side of the flimsy fabric. "You've stolen it when my back was turned. Can a man not walk about in his rooms sans dressing gown and confidently return to it later?"

Watson is steaming and he knows where this path leads - straight to the bedroom. Not this time, he thinks. You've interrupted my sleep and I've tolerated it, you've dragged me away from my dinner in order to chase a criminal, I draw the line at ruining my bath.  

"He can  _if_ it were not stolen in the first place."

Holmes moves closer and slides his hands over Watson's chest slowly, sensually. He cannot seduce a man like any decent human being would, no. He'd rather pick petty arguments on shaky foundations and worry his partner to death. Watson hates that it's effective 98% of the time. 

"It's _pink_ , you hate pink. That dressing gown that you're peacocking about in was a gift from my aunt not three months ago and I've worn it but four times before you savagely took it. Honestly, Watson. Does your thievery know no bounds?"

"It looks better on me," Watson retorts childishly. He is the thief here and a forgetful one at that but he'll never admit it. 

 Holmes pushes away the final flank of the dressing gown. It pools in a damp pile of dusty rose at their feet and Watson loses a little more of the battle. At this point they're just saying words that mean nothing and prolong the inevitable because stubborn pride.

 

Watson's eyes flutter closed when Holmes grips his naked hips and whispers - right in his ear, "I cannot disagree with that."

God help him, Watson cannot do it. 

"Arse," he mutters darkly and tugs Holmes by the wrist, to his bedroom. 

* * *

 

The next morning, Mrs. Hudson scowls at a path of damp that begins in the middle of the sitting room and leads to Holmes' chair.

"Haven't you any manners or respect for an old tired lady?" She mutters. 

Holmes flips through a book and waves her bitterness away. "I shall give you all the respect you deserve if you fetch me 5000mL formaldehyde and a book of matches. I seem to have misplaced mine."

Watson, who'd been partaking in the evening newspaper, put it aside and shot his partner a death glare. 

"Don't. He doesn't deserve them."

Blessed sweet Mrs. Hudson sighs heavily at her childlike boarders and drops a pail of water and ragged towels at their feet. She's in a foul mood and Watson supposes it has something to do with the creaking floors where their bed lay upstairs in combination with the wet floor of course. 

John Watson is a good man and Mrs. Hudson puts up with a lot from her tenants. Guilt eats at him until he kneels on the hard floor and begins to heartily scrub. Holmes rolls his eyes and reads obituaries and local crime from the paper.

"Sorry," Watson says. He and the woman who is practically family to he and Holmes lock eyes. They've the same exhausted expression that says, _Can't we simply lock him in a room?_

She shakes her head no.

Watson scrubs harder.

He is in love with a madman and he wouldn't have it any other way.

* * *

 

 


End file.
